Just then Lucy gave a yank on her leash and Clara looked over to see Peter walking through their gate and across the dirt road, waving. She looked around for cars then unclipped Lucy. The elderly dog bounded across the green and right into Peter, who doubled over. Gamache winced.
Straightening up Peter limped over to their bench, two muddy pawprints on his crotch.
‘Chief Inspector.’ Peter put out his hand with more dignity than Gamache had thought possible. Gamache rose and shook hands warmly with Peter Morrow. ‘Sad time,’ said Peter.
‘It is. I was just saying to Clara we think it’s possible Madame Favreau didn’t die naturally.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You weren’t there, were you?’ Gamache ignored Peter’s question.
‘No, we’d had people for dinner last night and I stayed to clean up.’
‘Would you have gone if you could?’
Peter barely hesitated. ‘No. I didn’t approve.’ Even to his own ears he sounded like a Victorian vicar.
‘Peter tried to talk me out of going,’ said Clara. All three were standing now and Clara took Peter’s hand. ‘He was right. We shouldn’t have done it. Had we all stayed away from there,’ Clara cocked her head toward the house on the hill, ‘Madeleine would still be alive.’
It was probably true, thought Gamache. But for how long? There were some things you couldn’t escape and death was one.
*
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir watched as the last of the Crime Scene team packed up then he backed out of the bedroom and closed the door. Ripping a length of tape from a yellow roll he stuck it across the door. He repeated that several times more than he normally would. Something in him felt the need to seal away whatever was in that room. He’d never admit it, of course, but Jean Guy Beauvoir had felt something growing. The longer he stayed the more it grew. Foreboding. No, not foreboding. Something else.
Emptiness. Jean Guy Beauvoir felt he was being hollowed out. And he suddenly knew that if he stayed there would be just a chasm and an echo where his insides had been.
He ached to get out. He’d looked over at Agent Lacoste, wondering whether she felt the same. She knew altogether too much about that witchcraft bullshit for his liking. Murmuring a Hail Mary as he sealed the room, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
Had he known how the artist Christo had wrapped the Reichstag he might have seen a similarity. Yellow Crime Scene tape smothered the door.
Taking the stairs two at a time he was out into the sunshine in a flash. The world was so much brighter, the air so much fresher, for having come from that tomb. Even the roar of the Rivière Bella Bella was comforting. Natural.
‘Great, you haven’t left yet.’
Beauvoir turned and saw Agent Robert Lemieux striding toward him, a smile on his young and eager face. Lemieux hadn’t been with them long, but he was already Beauvoir’s favorite. He liked young agents who idolized him.
Still, Beauvoir was surprised.
‘Did the Chief Inspector call you in?’ Beauvoir knew Gamache’s plan was to keep the investigation simple until they knew for sure it was murder.
‘No. Heard about it from one of my cop friends down here. I’m visiting my parents over in Ste-Catherine-de-Hovey. Thought I’d drop in.’
Beauvoir looked at his watch. One o’clock. Now that he was out of the damned house he wondered if the emptiness he’d felt was just hunger pangs. Yes, that must be it.
‘Come with me. The chief’s in the bistro, probably having the last croissant.’ Even though he was kidding Beauvoir could feel his anxiety rising. Suppose it was true? He hurried to the car and the two men drove the hundred yards or so into Three Pines.
*
Armand Gamache sat in front of the open fireplace sipping a Cinzano and listening. Even in late April a warm fire was welcome. Olivier had greeted him with a hug and a licorice pipe.
‘Merci, patron,’ said Gamache, returning the hug and accepting the pipe.
‘It’s just too shocking to absorb,’ said Olivier, beautifully dressed in corduroys and oversized cashmere sweater. Not a fine blond hair out of place, not a crease or smudge to mar the look. By contrast his partner had forgotten to put his dentures in and was unshaven. A thick black stubble had rubbed Gamache’s cheek when he and Gabri embraced.
Peter, Clara and Gamache followed Gabri to the sun-faded sofa by the fire while Olivier got their drinks, and now Myrna joined them just as they settled in.
‘I’m glad to see you.’ She took a seat in a nearby wing chair.
Gamache looked at the large black woman with affection. She ran his favorite bookstore.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked, her intelligent eyes kind and trying to soften the bluntness of the question.
He felt a certain empathy for the telegraph man on his wobbly bicycle during the war. The bearer of catastrophic news. Viewed always with suspicion.
‘He thinks she was murdered, of course,’ said Gabri, though without his dentures it sounded as though Gamache was ‘tinking’.
‘Murdered?’ said Myrna, with a snort. ‘It was horrible, violent even, but not murder.’
‘How was it violent?’
‘I think we all felt assaulted,’ said Clara and they nodded.
Beauvoir and Lemieux thrust open the bistro door just then, talking. Gamache caught their attention and raised his hand. They fell silent and walked over to the gathering by the fireplace.
The sun was streaming through the leaded glass windows and in the background other patrons could be heard murmuring. Everyone was subdued.
‘Tell me what happened,’ said Gamache quietly.
‘The psychic had spread the salt and lit the candles,’ said Myrna, her eyes open and seeing the scene. ‘We were in a circle.’
‘Holding hands,’ Gabri remembered. His breathing had become fast and shallow and he looked as though he might pass out from the memory alone. Gamache thought he could almost hear the large man’s heartbeat.
‘I’ve never been so terrified,’ said Clara. ‘Not even driving through a snowstorm on the highway.’
Everyone nodded. They’d all felt the stunning certainty that this was how their lives would end. In a fiery crash, spinning out of control, invisible in the swirling, chaotic snow.
‘But that was the whole point, wasn’t it?’ asked Peter, perching on the arm of Clara’s wing chair. ‘To scare yourselves?’
Was that why they’d done it? wondered Clara.
‘We were there to cleanse the place of evil spirits,’ said Myrna, but in the clear light of day it sounded ridiculous.
‘And maybe to scare ourselves just a little,’ admitted Gabri. ‘Well, it’s true,’ he added, seeing their faces. And Clara had to admit, it was true. Could they have been so foolish? Were their lives so sedate, so boring, they had to seek and manufacture danger? No, not manufacture. It was always there. They’d courted it. And it had responded.
‘Jeanne, the psychic,’ Myrna explained to Gamache, ‘said she could hear something coming. We were quiet for a moment and, well, I think I heard something too.’
‘So did I,’ said Gabri. ‘By the bed. Someone was turning over on the bed.’
‘No, it was from the corridor,’ said Clara, tearing her eyes from the fire and looking at their faces. It was reminiscent of the night before, all their faces lit by the fire, all eyes lunar and their bodies taut, as though prepared to bolt. She was back in that dreadful room. Smelling spring flowers, like a funeral home, and hearing those steps shuffling up behind her. ‘Steps. There were steps. Remember Jeanne said they were coming. The dead were coming.’
Beauvoir felt his heart contract and his hands grow numb. He wondered whether Lemieux would mind if he held his hand, but decided he’d rather die.
‘They’re coming, she said,’ agreed Myrna. ‘Then she said something else.’
‘From the roof and somewhere else,’ said Gabri, trying to recall the words.
‘From the attic,’ Myrna corrected.
‘And the basement,’ said Clara, looking straight at Armand Gamache. He felt the blood drain from his face. The basement of the old Hadley house still haunted him.
‘And that was when it happened,’ said Gabri.
‘Not quite,’ said Clara. ‘She said one more thing.’
‘They’re all around us,’ said Myrna quietly. ‘Be here. Now!’
She clapped her hands and Beauvoir almost died.